


Not set

by Tashilover



Series: Forward, back, and between [2]
Category: Endeavour
Genre: Time Travel, mentions of past suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-30 11:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6421210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he noticed was a homeless teenager, digging through the bins, searching for food.</p><p> </p><p>Continuation to 'Beyond my years'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thursday thought if he were to ever meet Morse again, it would be somewhere grand. The boy was smart enough, resilient enough to become someone worth knowing. Perhaps he'll become a university professor, or he'll end up in London, working along side with the greatest minds England had to offer. Hell, Thursday was sure he was going to see Morse on television one day, getting awards or even being knighted.

What he didn't expect was to find Morse, digging around in a trash bin, right outside a local restaurant.

In a small town called Charlotte Hall, nearly fifteen years ago, Thursday had asked Win to marry him. It was a clumsy proposal. They were in a crowded pub, shoulder to shoulder with soliders and their girlfriends, fighting to grab an available table. It smelled of beer and unwashed body odour, and Thursday was loving every second of it. He rememebered how Win laughed, matching her tolerance for alcohol with Thursday. When she impressively finished off her third pint, Thursday went down on one knee, right into the puddle of someone's spilled drink, and asked her.

Win squealed yes, threw herself into Thursday's arms, and they ended up getting a fourth pint for free that night.

The pub was long gone by now, replaced with a new, fancy-looking cafe. Thursday had personally driven to Charlotte Hall to make reservations for his and Win's upcoming anniversary. It may not be the old pub, but it was the same location. That was good enough. Afterwards he wanted to explore and see what has changed over the years.

That's when he found Morse.

At first Thursday didn't recognize him. All he noticed was a young homeless teenager, digging through trash bins for discarded food. He wanted to offer the poor child some money, perhaps even a free meal inside of the restaurant whose bins he was scavenging through. Thursday would offer the addresses of homeless shelters, except the only ones he knew of were in Oxford.

Thursday already had money in hand, walking up to the boy slowly, not wishing to spook him. So far the red headed child had not noticed him, too busy inspecting what looked like a rotten apple. "Excuse me, lad," Thursday said. The boy suddenly jerked away, twirling around to face Thursday. "You don't need to dig through the bins for food. Here's a few pounds for..."

He trailed off, getting a good look.

Morse was taller now, though still shorter than Thursday. His face was longer, his cheeks thinner, and his freckles a lot more pronounced. Small flecks of red facial hair sprouted around his chin, making him look older than he was. He had a white scar trailing across his nose, down towards his cheek. Those eyes, though. Thursday would recognize those eyes anywhere.

"Morse...?" Thursday breathed, stepping forward. "What the hell, lad? What are you-?"

Morse turned and took off running.

There was a fence blocking off the other side of the alley, and Morse climbed it like it was nothing. Thursday barely took two steps and Morse was already gone, the sound of his running steps disappearing off in the distance. Not even in his prime had Thursday ever been able to do that. He was too big and gangly to ever climb something so swiftly.

"The fuck...?" Thursday said to himself, crushing the ten pound note as his fists curled angrily.

This wasn't suppose to happen. Morse was suppose to take everything he knew and have a better life. With his knowledge, his experience, he could go anywhere, do anything. Thursday didn't understand.

It had only been four years.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Thursday leaned tiredly against the wall, bringing up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He grimaced and asked, "How did she die?"

"Consumption," said Sergeant Berry of Carshall Newtown through the phone. "According to records, she died in the hospital."

"Three years ago."

"Yes, sir."

"And what happened to the boy?"

"School and medical records were transferred over to the eastern side of Carshall Newtown. Father and step-mother became legal guardians after that."

Thursday remembered how skinny Constance Morse was, how thin her wrists were, how pale her skin was. He didn't think much of it. He's met plenty of women who were just as small and delicate as she. He had no idea she was slowly dying. Morse did though. What was it like to lose your mother twice? To have prior knowledge of her death and yet still have no way of saving her? "When were the missing child reports first filed?" Thursday asked.

"April 14th."

Thursday counted the days. Morse lived in his father's home for nearly two months before running away.

"And he was found, sir," Berry continued. "By, huh, by a bus stop. He was brought home, and then was reported to run off less than two days later. And then he was found again, nearly three weeks later. He was held at a police station in Lexington Park when he sneaked past the officers and escaped. Nearly four months later, authorities found him again sleeping inside of a church. He refused help and ran off again. That's the last anyone has seen him."

Jesus _Christ_ , Morse. "Did the boy ever give a reason why he kept running? Was there abuse?"

"No, sir. Accoridng to the reports, Endeavour made it explicitly clear there was no abuse. In fact, according to a quote written in the report here, he said to one police officer, 'I prefer my own company, that's all.' There was an extra investigation done to ensure he wasn't lying. His half-sister, Joyce, showed no signs of abuse."

Morse was only _twelve_ when he first ran away. Surely there must be a reason why Morse refused to live at his father's home, why he refused shelter and food and familiar faces. "Thank you, sergeant." Thursday said and hung up.

His next call was to Win, telling her he wasn't coming home that night, that something came up. He winced, hearing the kids screaming the background and knowing he'd left her all alone with those two little noisemakers.

Once done with that guilt trip of a phone call, Thursda stepped back and thought of his next move. If he wanted to find Morse, he couldn't recruit the help of the local police. He didn't have the authority or the right to use local law inforcement. Morse would spot them from a mile away and run. No, it would be easier, faster if Thursday did this by himself. Even if the police did manage to find Morse the boy would only escape the moment their heads turned.

Why bother? Said a dark little thought in Thursday's mind. Morse obviously didn't want to be found, and you can't help someone who didn't want to be helped.

Because he's a fifteen year old who's been on his own for nearly three years now. Because that idiot of a child believed he didn't need help. When he wrote that letter to Thursday, he wasn't saying goodbye, he was saying _don't follow me_. And like a fool, Thursday believed it. He could've checked in on Morse once or twice. The boy was a _time traveler_. That was not something Thursday should innocently forget.

First things first. Thursday had to find him, feed him, then shake the stupidity out of him. In that order.

Now, if he were Morse, where would he be?

"Library," Thursday said suddenly. With keys in hand, he headed for his car.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Thursday thought when he got to the library, the best he was going to find were a few eye witnessed accounts from the librarians, speaking of a red headed regular. What he didn't expect to find, right off the bat, was Morse, sitting by himself at a table, taking notes from a book. Thursday stopped in mid-step, surprised he found the boy so easily. He was sure Morse had jumped onto a city bus and took off.

Thursday took note Morse had changed into a school uniform. Smart. Nobody was going to take a second glance at a teenager in a library. If they did, they would've noticed how worn and old the uniform looked.

At this time of day, the library was sparse of patrons. There were mothers with their kids in the children area, a few adults mingled about in the stacks. Morse had a couple books opened around him. He wrote on a pad of paper, too busy concentrating on what he was doing to see Thursday near the front desk.

Thursday quietly observed the library, ensuring where the emergency exits were in case Morse tried to run again. Once done, Thursday moved so he was out of Morse's direct eye line, and swiftly walked towards him.

Morse must've been really engrossed in his reading because he made no indication he heard Thursday coming up behind him, not even when Thursday accidentally kicked the leg of a pulled out chair in passing.

Thursday will admit later on he should've been gentler in his approach, but he just spent the day worrying for this draft child, broke plans with his wife, and he really didn't want Morse taking off again. When he was close enough, he reached out and grabbed Morse's left wrist in a firm grip.

Morse startled violently, looked up and his mouth dropped in a gasp.

"Quiet," Thursday hissed, pulling out a seat with his other hand. He sat down, still gripping Morse's wrist. "You're in a library."

That was probably the dumbest thing Thursday has ever heard himself say, but it was effective. Morse's mouth closed with a click of his teeth. He still looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "Now," Thursday continued. "I'm going to tell you what we're going to do. We're going to go outside to my car, and we're going to _talk_. I will expect answers and you are not going to run off again. Do you understand?"

Morse was clearly trying to keep calm, taking careful breaths as the seconds passed. Thursday felt his own grip weakening, feeling guilty. He wanted to be firm with the boy, not frightened him. With a grunt, he pulled his hand away. "Morse-"

"I'm not leaving yet," Morse said through gritted teeth. "I got work to do."

"Work? You..."

Thursday looked over the books Morse had opened before him. These were local published books of the town's history. "What are you doing?"

Morse sighed, and pulled out another sheet of paper from beneath his notes. He shoved it towards Thursday. "Jason Perkins was murdered last week in his home. People first thought it was a robbery gone wrong. His flat was ransacked but nothing of value was taken."

"You... are you actually still doing this? You're still trying to solve future cases?"

"I was not aware of this case until Perkins was murdered. This has nothing to do with time travel."

"Then what are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm trying to solve his murder!"

His loud exclamation had the librarian jerk up from her desk, her lips thinning out in irritaion. Thursday flashed his badge at her, giving her his own look of annoyance. His won out and she slunk back down in her seat, purposely keeping her head down.

Thursday turned back to Morse. "You need to stop doing this. This is not your job."

"I'm doing this because the job isn't being done right."

"You leave this for the adults-"

"I AM an adult!"

"As of right now, you're not acting like one. Morse, when I left you, I was under the impression you would be safe. That you would be cared for. I do not appreciate my hard work was tossed down the drain because you wanted to act like Sherlock Holmes."

Morse huffed. "I absolve you of all guilt."

Ohh, cheeky little brat. Any patience he may have had suddenly evaporated. "You want to act like a child? Fine, I'll treat you like one. Get up."

Morse gawked at him, as if he didn't believe Thursday would actually do this. He licked his lips and tried to explain himself. "Sir, look, I-"

"I said, _get up_."

This was one fight Morse was not going to win, not if Thursday had something to say about it. He watched as Morse bitterly pushed aside his books and gathered his notes together.

A minute later they were in the car. Though Morse was - Twenty-nine? Thirty years old? - he certainly encompassed the teenager pout. He sat angrily in the passenger seat, refusing to make eye contact.

Thursday sighed. "Why didn't you tell me you knew your mother was going to die?"

"Why?" Said Morse, still refusing to make eye contact. "There was nothing you could've done. There was nothing I could've done."

It was sad to know Morse was right. Thursday couldn't have helped. Worse, even if Morse had reached out, asking for a shoulder to lean on, Thursday wasn't sure he would have been there. Shortly after Morse's mother died, Win had given birth to Sam. It was a difficult birth. Win was in labour for three whole days and by the end of it, she was so exhausted, she didn't leave the hospital until two weeks later. There was no way Thursday could've left her side, not when she needed him most, not when Joan was too young to understand why her mother was still at the hospital.

"Did you run away from your father's home because you were being abused?"

"No," said Morse in a clipped tone.

"Then why did you run away?"

"I have my reasons."

"Which are?"

Morse remained quiet.

"You're fifteen," Thursday tried again to keep calm. "And unless you can give me a valid reason why you cannot stay in your father's home, I will have to send you back there. You need to be in school, you need housing-"

"I need you to back off."

Thursday could've slapped him for that. They were going in circles, and until Thursday got Morse to trust him again, it didn't matter if Thursday brought him back to his father's home; Morse was simply going to run away again.

Thursday glanced down to the notebook in Morse's hand. He asked, "What were you reasearching?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suicide scenario and blood

"...now, the interesting thing I've learned about this town, according to the records, this was originally the home of Janice and David Walker, business folk from America. They were born here but were adopted and brought over to the States. Both of them are rich, amazingly so. I've found a few economic articles regarding about their business. Now, Jason Perkins was their banker from ten years ago. Not any more, the war forced the Walkers to change banks. I believe Perkins still has some of their financial papers..."

Morse took a moment to sip his glass of apple juice - not ale. He asked for it and Thursday simply gave him a look - and continued talking animately. In front of him was his plate with the remnants of the sheppard pie he finished eating.

It was quite a marvel watching Morse slowly break down the mystery behind this man's murder. It was the same three years ago. He didn't need the official reports from police, he didn't need to see pictures. Just by taking a few leaps of faith in his research, he managed to figure out why poor Jason Perkins was killed. When Morse knew the answer to a difficult question, he came alive.

Besides the employees and one other patron, they were alone in the pub. It was a nice, quiet atmosphere, and thankfully they were left alone. Every time an employee came near to clear off a table or to collect their glasses, Thursday would be on alert, afraid how they would react to overhearing a teenager talk avidly of a murder. The employees never noticed or didn't care.

Thursday couldn't help but grin when Morse explained certain parts . It was a bit like watching Joan explaining her fantasy world of dragon and princesses. There was so much enthusiasm, so much energy, Thursday basked in the warmth of it. He reached for his drink, and when he looked up again-

\- _Morse was taller here, older, and slightly drunk. Even while inebriated he was still as sharp as an arrow, sprouting theories as fast as he could blink. Sitting besides him was another young man with hair as black as ash. This was Jakes, Thursday thought. Even he was too busy smiling over his own pint, amazed by the way Morse laid out the steps of the crime. When Morse got to a particuarly hard word to pronounce, too drunk to speak clearly, Jakes teased him, then spilt his own drink over himself. Everyone at the table started laughing, perhaps a little too loud judging from the way the rest of the pub glared at them, but none of them cared. They solved the case and the day was still early. Morse wiped away a tear, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. Not even thirty and already he was getting wrinkles around-_

Thursday pulled back, blinking. The image was gone from his eyes, and the pub was empty once again. Morse was still there, young and innocent and fifteen. The other man (Thursday already forgotten what he looked like, what his name was) was gone.

"Are you alright?" Morse asked, frowning.

"Uh... yes," Thursday said, reaching up to rub at his eyes. What was that? "I'm fine. Dust."

Morse nodded. He fiddled with the fork on his empty plate for a moment and said, "Thank you, sir. For the meal."

A full stomach always changed the attitude of a person. Joan always quieted down when she was satisfied. Now that Morse was full, now that he was warm, Thursday sensed he could ask questions without the usual bullshit. He had to be careful or else he could be easily shut out again. "When's the last time you ate?"

"Ah... uh, yesterday morning."

"Christ, Morse. Was there a reason why you ran from me?"

"I was embarrassed. I didn't want you to see me like this."

"Of course I don't want to see you like this, half-starved and homeless-"

"I'm fine. I don't need you coddling me-"

As if on cue, as Morse reached for his apple juice, his hand knocked into the glass. It tipped over and the remains sloshed over the table top, splashing onto his shirt and trousers. Morse cursed and jerked back.

Thursday offered him his own napkin, but Morse huffed and said, "I'm going to the loo to dry off."

Well, this wasn't going to be easy, Thursday thought as he brought out his pipe.

Once again, he considered giving up, to leaving Morse be. No matter how the boy looked, he wasn't really fifteen years old. Morse was right, Thursday was coddling him, worrying over every stupid little thing. He should offer Morse some money then leave. He's been fine by himself for the past three years.

Yeah, there was no fucking way Thursday was buying into that bullshit. He couldn't believe he even tried to. Thursday sighed and settled more into his chair, determined to enjoy his pipe before the argument resumed.

Five minutes turned to ten, and Morse still wasn't back from the toilets.

The door to the loo was in Thursday's direct eyeline, so it was unlikely Morse snuck past him. Perhaps Morse needed to clean himself off and use the toilet. No need to worry.

When ten minutes then turned into fifteen, Thursday angrily put out his pipe and stood up.

The door to the loo was locked. "Morse?" He said, rapping his knuckles against the door. "Are you alright?"

He touched the handle, felt something wet and jerked his hand back, groaning in disgust. He thought it was water, or worse- urine. In the dim lighting of the pub, he narrowed his eyes, frowning at the stain on the pads of his fingers.

It was fresh blood.

Fear bubbled in Thursday's stomach. "Morse-!" He gripped the handle again. "Open this door!"

He didn't wait. He braced his shoulder against the door and with one good strong shove, broke in.

Morse was standing by the sink, the water turned on full blast, holding his arm under the spray. He jerked up in surprise, raising his arm out of the water, giving Thursday a perfect look at his wrist, bleeding fresh and bleeding fast.

"It's not what you think," Morse said, breathlessly.

Thursday came barreling into the loo, grabbing Morse's wrist, covering the wound with his hand, putting pressure on it.

He thought about Carter, Carter who died alone and in pain in the middle of the street, unable to cry out for help. Carter was only twenty-four years. He had curly blonde hair and a fat, handsome face. He was such a charmer, such a sweetheart. Thursday swore every woman he ever came across fell in love with him instaneously. It was hard to believe such a boy could ever become a police officer. He was too gentle, Thursday remembered thinking. So gentle.

Morse was not Carter. He was too quiet. He was lean while Cater was all shapes. Gangly while Carter was graceful. Carter wasn't a fool but compared to Morse, he was dumber than a sack of rotten potatoes. Thursday would never compare the two to each other; they were as different as the sun was to the moon.

-if either of them disappeared, it would destroy his world-

Thursday didn't know he was sobbing. He kept his hand duitfully closed around Morse's wrist, his fingers stained with blood, knowing it was a fruitless endeavour. An ambulance was not going to get here in time. The cut was too deep, there was too much blood.

Not again. Please, not again.

"Fred!" Morse nearly screamed at him. Thursday looked up, almost begging. He could have helped Morse, he could have been there for him. If only he asked.

"It stopped," Morse said, unbelievably calm. "Look..."

He tried to peel Thursday's hand away and was denied. "It's alright," he whispered, encouraging Thursday to loosen his grip. Slowly, his fingers uncurled. "That's it. It's okay, I'm fine..."

There was blood, yes. It was warm and sticky and it seeped beneath Thursday's fingernails. But the cut on Morse's wrist was no longer there. Thursday ran his thumb over Morse's wrist, checking to see if it was a mere trick. The skin was smooth and unmarked.

Thursday took in a shuddering breath. "I don't understand."

"I don't really understand it myself," Morse said. "But I think I have an idea. Let me clean this blood off first and I'll explain."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of past suicide attempt, accusation of molestation.

There was still blood underneath his fingernails.

By now the colour had already turned and it looked like dirt than blood. Either way, Thursday wanted it gone. He wanted to scrub and cut until all traces of it was flushed down the drain. That would have to wait.

At the moment, they were parked in the lot of a local dance hall, temporarily shut down for renovations. For the past ten minutes, neither of them spoke. Thursday was still trying to calm down. The image of Morse's wrist covered in blood kept repeating itself in his head, making him sick.

"I don't ever want to see that again."

Thursday didn't know he spoke until Morse turned to him, frowning. Thursday took a breath, then said again, "I don't ever want to see your wrist slit open like that again. That will not be your end."

"It's... it's not," Morse said quietly. "It won't be."

"Then what was that?"

"It was an illusion."

"It felt pretty fucking real to me."

"This is not the first time this has happened. It... comes, it goes, it's always random. I can't find the pattern-"

"You said you knew the reason why. Has this something to do with your time traveling?"

"Possibly."

"Meaning?"

"When I was originally fifteen... I tried to kill myself."

"I'm fifteen now," Morse continued quickly as if such a confession was to be forgotten now. "I think time's trying to... catch up? realign itself? I'm trying to remember about my other injuries. I broke my arm when I was a teenager, but I don't remember when it exactly happened. I can't exactly experiment with this. I got a real bad burn on my leg when I was twenty because one of my mates was smoking and he dropped it-"

He was babbling now. He clutched his arm to his chest, still speaking of things yet to come.

"Morse," Thursday said.

Morse continued talking. His breath was hitching, his voice getting thicker with every word. He was trembling slightly, his eyes becoming unfocused and wet.

" _Endeavour_."

At the sound of his name, he stopped, swallowing his last word.

He seemed to hang in space, not breathing, not moving, not blinking. Thursday didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say. How do you begin to comfort someone who was being forced to relive their suicide attempt? He couldn't stop it, he could barely understand it, why-

Suddenly Morse gasped and slapped a hand over his mouth. Tears started to fall from his eyes.

Aw, fuck it.

Thursday reached across the seat and pulled Morse in. He wrapped his arms around Morse's thin shoulders, letting him bury his face into Thursday's chest.

" _I regretted it the moment I did it_ ," Morse sobbed quietly. " _I didn't want to die, but I didn't see the point of tomorrow..._ "

"It's alright, lad, you don't need to explain."

" _I never told anyone, not even Joyce_."

He said a few other things but they were muffled against Thursday's chest. This was all Thursday could offer, a warm embrace and a mild sense of privacy. He continued to gently rub Morse's back, the need to protect and shelter this child overwhelming him. Thursday opened his mouth, wanting to ask if Morse wanted something, when his eyes suddenly blurred and he-

- _Morse was sleeping in the back seat of the Jaguar, but it was not a restful one. He kept twitching, his injuries refusing to let him rest properly. Thursday watched Morse from the rearview mirror, waiting to see if he was going to wake up. As soon as Morse settled again, Thursday looked down and continued to dab his bleeding knuckles with a handkerchief._

_Mallory and his partner had gone down like a sack of potatoes. They had no fight in them, no strength in their bodies. Thursday was sure had Morse not been caught unawares, he could've taken these two morons with ease. Only cowards struck their opponents from behind._

_When the bleeding had stopped, Thursday tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket, right next to the brass knuckles he'd taken. Morse was still snoozing. The bruise under his eye was darker now, turning purple, and upon seeing it, Thursday wished he'd hit Mallory harder. They could've killed Morse by accident. If he had died from that blow, died in the same manner as Carter, Thursday wasn't sure he'd come back from that. There's only so many times his heart can take-_

Suddenly Thursday was back in the car, the scene gone from his eyes.

Morse hadn't notice, he was already pulling back on his own, wiping at his face. Thursday carefully schooled his features, pushing the vision away from his thoughts. Now wasn't the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Joyce and I played together all the time. For the longest time, she was my only friend. I was an awkward kid, and thankfully she never judged me or made fun of me. But when I started puberty, Gwen would find reasons to keep us apart. I would have to do chores or help out a neighbour with some menial task. I later found out it was because she was afraid I would _molest_ Joyce. I used to see how some of the other boys at school would treat the girls, and I wondered if I treated Joyce in the same way. I became afraid of myself as a result. God, the thought still sickens me to this day. After that, things got worse. I got sick often, my school work suffered, and... I just remember thinking, I don't want to continue like this. I want it to stop."

Morse was laying down in the backseat, an arm drapped over his eyes. Despite the heaviness of the talk, he sounded sleepy. A few times he stopped in mid-sentence, settling deeper into the cushions. If he needed to sleep, Thursday would let him. It was nearing sunset anyhow.

"I refuse to go back into that environment," Morse said. "I tried in the beginning, thinking things would be different. Two months was all I could handle. I'm not going back."

Thursday shook his head. "I won't send you back there."

"Thank you. I am not completely homeless, you know. I have a place to stay at."

"Are you squatting?"

"...yes."

"What's the address?"

"Why?"

Thursday turned on the car. "Because it's getting late and I don't want to pay for a room."

"You want to _stay_ overnight?"

"If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn't good enough for Morse.

Thursday bit down on his tongue as he surveyed the house. The structure was fine. The foundation was solid. Except there were no windows, no toilet, no bath, and the stairs were completely rotted away. If someone had bought this house and given enough time and money, it could become something very nice. But at the moment all Thursday could see was how drafty it was, how ugly. "Have you been living here for the past three years?"

Morse shook his head. "I've only been here for a week. I slept in parks, under bridges, chruches when the doors were opened. Had to stop when they kept calling the police."

He said it so casually like it meant nothing. Good lord. "Where do you normally sleep?"

"In here," Morse said, leading him into another room. "It's warm and dry."

In the corner of the house Morse had set up a small sleeping area for himself. He had blankets pilled to the side like a small nest. There was also a bag full of clothes, and next to that were a few miscellaneous items like a washing basin and old library books.

"There's actually a well in the back," Morse said. "The water's cold but it's clean. I could get a bucket if you like."

"I can get my own. Here, let me see your arm again."

"Why? I'm not bleeding."

"Indulge me."

Morse frowned but stepped forward, pulling up his sleeve. Thursday gently grasped his arm, looking for signs of a cut. There were small flecks of blood staining the cuff of the sleeve, the only evidence left behind. Besides that, Morse's wrist was clean and smooth. "My future self never knew?"

"Nobody knew," Morse said. "I never wanted anyone to know."

He pulled away. "Look, sir, I appreciate your concern, and I know how this must appear to you. My being homeless and my cut... I'm not the same person when I was fifteen. I won't... I won't do that again. I can promise you that. Besides, I'll be sixteen soon and I'll be able to get a full time job-"

"Six months isn't _soon_."

"You said you wouldn't send me back."

"And I won't. But your being homeless isn't an option either. Morse... just come with me to my home. I have room-"

"With Tony Greenberg's case still hanging over our heads? Any involvement with you would look inappropriate."

"Inspector Wash has been retired for nearly a year now-"

"My father wouldn't approve it," Morse said. "Neither will Gwen, if only because she hates gossip. In six months I'll be sixteen years old. I've been on my own for three years, I can last another six months."

"And what am I suppose to do? Leave you here, in a broken house with you _bleeding_ every other day?"

" _Yes_!"

Thursday rubbed a tired hand over his face. This conversation was going around in circles.

"The sun is almost gone," Morse said, gesturing towards the window. The sun was already gone. In another twenty minutes it was going to be pitch black. "Let me show you to the well. I'd rather get water now while I can still see."


	6. Chapter 6

Once he helped Morse bring in a few buckets full of water, Thursday pulled out the emergency blankets he had in the boot of his car. He also brought out a box of matches and built a fire in the fire place, to which Morse protested. "If someone sees the smoke, they'll come over and investigate."

"Nobody will care, Morse," Thursday said as he threw in more kindling. Alright, maybe someone will care, but he didn't. This was going to be Morse's last night here. Might as well make it a warm one.

Morse didn't look happy about it but said nothing. He used a bucket of water for himself to wash his face and clean his teeth.

"When's the last time you've seen a dentist?" Thursday asked.

"Don't you start."

"Have you got all your shots?"

Morse sighed irritably. "I'm fine. I am not suffering."

"Except from random blood episodes and malnutrition."

"There's nothing I can do about the first one. And I'm not starving."

"At age thirty, it's fine to skip a meal or two. At fifteen, you need the calories-"

Morse pushed up from his bucket. He turned to Thursday angrily. "What do you want from me?"

"Why are you fighting me so hard on this?" Thursday countered. "Why are you angry for wanting you to be safe and sound?"

"I'm not-"

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit! During Gull's case, you ran yourself ragged, nearly drove us off the road! You were falling over yourself, with a stab wound, no less! I'd thought by now you'd learn to take care of yourself, but I can see you're a stubborn arse! So if you won't do it, then I will!"

Morse gaped at him. Thursday thougth his words got through to him, but then Morse said, "You... how... you know about Mason Gull?"

"What?"

"You mentioned what we did while we were on the Mason Gull's case. I never told you about that case."

"I..."

"Are... are you remembering the future?"

Thursday had no idea what he said. The words came out of him so easily, but when he tried to remember them, to piece them back together, he couldn't. "Oh lord," Thursday said. "I need to sit down, this is giving me a headache."

He wished he had a couch to flop down upon. Instead, he carefully sat down upon one of the blankets he pulled from the boot. He rubbed his forehead.

Morse sat crosslegged in front of him. "How long has this been happening?"

"I don't know. It comes so quickly, I'm not sure exactly what I saw."

"See? Like what?"

"Um... You, most of the time. I see you. Older. Taller. Other times I see another young man. He has black hair, likes to smoke cheap cigarettes-"

"That's Sergeant Jakes," Morse said in quiet surprise. "He's one of your men."

"I don't get this. You, I understand. You're from that time. Why am I seeing the future?"

"Does it hurt?"

"Mostly it's confusing. A few headaches, perhaps. Nothing I can't handle."

"I don't like this," Morse confessed. "It's like a disease. It has symptoms, it has aches and pains. I have to find a way to cure it."

"Good lord, listen to yourself. Are you always this dramatic?"

"I'm just thinking out loud."

"You have to find a way to 'cure it'? How do you cure time travel?"

"I don't know!"

Morse pushed himself back up and started pacing the small room. "Time is trying to align itself. Make itself whole? I wonder if this was what Owens experienced, if he got flashes of the future or found old wounds on him. He didn't see the point in fighting it, so he continued on the same path. Is that what we have to do? Continue on our way?"

"I don't like the direction you're taking this," Thursday said, getting up as well. "Taking advice from a child killer is not going to help us."

"Do you have a better plan?"

He didn't. "I do," Thursday lied. "We continue as is. Don't give me that look. We shouldn't fight ...whatever this is, but we don't resist it either. Remember, you survive your suicide attempt. That means you're already on the path you're meant to take. We are suppose to meet one day, that's another notch. Stop trying to fix something that's not broken, Morse. Let it go."

Morse flexed his fingers. "I'm not sure I can."

"Dwell on it later, then. Tomorrow will bring something new, I'm sure."

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning Thursday woke to the sounds of singing birds, a soldering fireplace, and an empty house. Left on the floor, on top of Morse's folded blankets, was a written note scribbled on the back of an old advert for war bonds. After reading it, Thursday crushed the paper in his hand.

_I've gone back to live with my father.  
\- Morse_


	7. Chapter 7

Life went on.

Thursday went home and the very first thing he did was hold his children close to his chest. He told them how much he loved them, how much he was proud of them. Sam giggled at the fond attention while Joan wiggled away, wanting to get back to her toys. Thursday didn't tell Win what happened, but she understood enough.

Morse didn't lie to him. A quick phone call to Carshall Newtown confirmed Morse had indeed gone back home and was picked up by his father.

He was a tough lad, Thursday kept reminding himself. He made it this far. He'll be... he'll be fine.

Thursday then did his best to turn his attention inward towards his family. He celebrated a wonderful ten year anniversary with Win. He watched Joan go off to her first day of school. Sam was finally weaned out of his nappies and began talking in full, complete sentences. At work people were pushing Thursday to step into the role of Inspector.

Over the next few months these episodes kept Thursday fairly busy. A lice breakout at school forced Joan to stay home for a week. Win discovered Sam was allergic to cat hair. A string of random burglaries of prestigious Oxford professors were considered 'high profile' and many cases were shoved to the side in favour of this.

Morse was never far from Thursday's mind. Once a week the visions of the future would come. They were subtle, unexpected moments. Thursday would pass an area and a small, insignificant memory would filter through his head.

_'Isn't this where Morse's girlfriend works at?'_

_'Joan wants tickets to see those Beatles, but good lord, I didn't think they'd be so expensive...'_

_'This dance hall will be perfect for our anniversary party. I wonder if Joan will be up to handling the decorations.'_

It always gave him pause. Like all the others, as quickly as the memory came, it went, leaving Thursday reaching desperately to get it back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was late.

Luckily it was still early enough to be dark outside; that meant Thursday had not spent the whole night staring up at his ceiling. He hated when he did this to himself, letting his mind wander so much he could not drift off. He'll survive, losing a few hours a sleep was not going to hinder him so badly, but he was not going to be happy. Win liked to joke he was like a baby: he got cranky when he was hungry, sleepy or wet.

Besides him, Win stirred awake. She wiggled out of bed then padded out of the room, going towards the toilet. Thursday silently watched her go. He waited, listening to the flush, followed by the sink, and a few seconds later, she came back to bed, still as sleepy as before.

"Win, can I ask you a question?"

"Mmmhmm?"

"How... ah, never mind, dear. Go back to sleep."

Win yawned. "You sound so serious. Is something the matter?"

"I'm curious, is all. You know I had a bad case a few months back."

"Yes. Is this related to that?"

"I... there was this boy. He didn't want me to help him. He didn't think he deserved help, that it wasn't right. I don't get it, Win. Why? Was it something I said or did-?"

"Shhhh..." Win gently rubbed his arm. "It's not your fault dear. I'm sure you did everything you could."

"Was there something else? Something I could have done?"

"I don't know. Fred, look, when I was still living with my father, he used to tell me how much of a burden I was. He'd remind me every day, telling me how much money he spent on things I needed like food and clothes. As a result, I did my best to be... less of a burden. I ate less, I took up as little space as I could and... oh gosh, I remember when I twisted my arm, I didn't tell my father for two days because I didn't want to bother him with the injury. I was forced to told him when my arm swelled up to twice its size.

"My point is, when you spend your life not relying on others, when you think you can't rely on others... I wanted someone to help me, Fred. But I always knew it was temporary. It came with a price."

Thursday grasped her hand. He brought it up to his lips and kissed it achingly. "Do you believe I would not help you when you need it?"

"I do know you'll be there for me, love. But at the same time, if you weren't, I don't think I'll notice."

It was the most heartbreaking thing Thursday has ever heard. He kissed her forehead and pulled her close, murmuring how much he loved her.

- _by the time Win hit her forties, she began complaining about her grey hair, grumbling about her wrinkles. She didn't like she got so visibly old so fast. Thursday teased her, pushing his large belly against her and asking her if she didn't like his sudden weight gain. She squealed and slapped him away, laughing as he chased her around the house_ -

That hasn't happened yet. Win's hair was still a brilliant chestnut brown, not a fleck of grey in them. It was good to know, twelve years from now, they would still be together. With that thought, Thursday slowly fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Thursday already knew DeBryn's name before he even shook the man's hand. He also knew DeBryn owned three cats, didn't smoke or drink, and had a rather macabre sense of humour.

By now Thursday stopped caring how invasive the visions were. Sometimes they were confusing, yes; just last week he thought he gave Win a pearl necklace for her birthday, and when he asked her about it, she told him, in a cold tone, she never received such a gift from him. That's when Thursday remembered he wouldn't buy that gift for her for another four years.

Most of the time he was grateful for the visions. As he walked up to Dr. DeBryn, he knew immediately DeBryn was a man to be trusted. "Hello, I'm Sergeant Thursday."

DeBryn was a short, stocky man, with black beady eyes, and wore a small set of black rimmed glasses. Thursday didn't understand how he could remember this man's character, but not what he looked like.

DeBryn took Thursday's hand. "I'm Dr. DeBryn. Beautiful weather we're having."

He said this as a bloodied corpse laid sprawled only a few feet away. "What have you found here?"

"Young man, early twenties, shot twice in the chest and dumped on this hill. He's in decent shape, no defensive wounds found on his hands or arms."

"Hmmm..." Thursday squatted down to the corpse. "So it's possible he knew his attacker. Anything else I should know about?"

"Yes," said DeBryn as he stripped off his gloves. "Does the name Morse mean anything to you?"

Thursday stiffened. "What?"

"Ah, I see. So you do know him-"

"Are you like him?" Thursday asked frantically. "Are from the future?"

"Am I from the- _what_? I'm sorry, did I mishear you?"

"I, uh, yes, sorry. What is this about?"

DeBryn gave him a long look, his bottom lip pouting out in suspicion. A moment later he let it go and said, "For the past couple years I've had correspondance with a E. Morse. He claimed he was a student, wanting to study forensic science and asked to pick my brains about the process. For a while I indulged him."

Thursday should've known. Nothing should surprise him at this point.

DeBryn continued. "After that, his questions became a bit more... innapropriate, shall we say? Asked specific things like, can rigor mortis be stopped? And, how long does a person have to soak their fingerprints in pineapple juice before it dissolves? I had to stop writing to him because I feared I was fueling the fantasies of a future murderer."

"How do I come into play? Did he mention me by name?"

DeBryn pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Last month he did."

As Thursday opened the letter, DeBryn explained, "He suspects there might be some corruption in the precinct near my hospital. He wrote to me with some evidence he collected over the past few months, and dropped your name, stating if I needed help, you were one to trust."

Thursday raised an eyebrow. The letter stated everything DeBryn was saying. Good lord, did that lad ever stop? Unless the crime was especially henious, Thursday doubted he'd bother if he wasn't a police officer. He gave the letter back. "And?"

"Well, in the end I didn't need your help," DeBryn said. "I put in an anonymous tip and the offender was caught. But I was left wondering who you are. I'm glad to finally meet you, Inspector."

Thursday startled.

It took a few seconds longer for DeBryn to realize what he said and frowned. "Apologies, I don't know why I got your rank wrong."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday was glad to see Morse had put on some weight the last time he saw him. Morse had the type of body that was always going to be skinny, but his cheeks were a little fuller, and his hair was longer. His school uniform was an ugly, dreadful thing. The grey blazer and bright yellow tie would have looked more at home on a used car salesman. Thursday hoped Sam and Joan would never be subjected to such fashion.

Morse didn't spot him at first. It was the end of the school day, and there were dozens of other teenagers clamoring to get home. There was laughter and endless amount of energy circulating through the crowd. Thursday watched as they unchained their bikes from the rack, as girls talked in their own private circles, while boys loosened their ties and ripped off their blazers in relief.

Morse was a little more reserved. Once he passed under the iron archway of the school gate, he politely loosened his tie only a little. A few passing students waved him goodbye, though it didn't looked like he had any close friends to walk him home. When his eyes grew wide, that's when Thursday knew Morse spotted him.

Thursday wasn't sure what to expect after three months. He was still annoyed Morse had left him in the middle of the night in that empty farm house. Three times Morse had run away. Was this going to be a fourth time?

Morse blinked, and suddenly he smiled in relief. He was glad to see him.

Well now.

That certainly caught Thursday off guard. He was so ready for a verbal fight with the boy, and instead he got a smile. It was a pleasant surprise.

Morse trotted over, his hair bouncing with every step. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

"That's a nice thing to say. Considering you left me without saying goodbye."

"Yeah, that was... I'm sorry. I felt like that was best option for the both of us."

"A decision you made without my knowledge or consent. So I'm going to say this now: don't you ever do that to me again. I will not have it."

"Yes. Yes, you're right. I'm... I'm sorry."

"I... Christ, I did not come here to chastise you. How are you? Is everything alright back home?"

"It's... different. My dad... I think he missed me."

"Of course he did, you're his son."

"He's never been one for outward affection, so it's a little hard to tell. Gwen is... Gwen. Nothing much has changed on that front. I think out of respect for my father, she toned down her passive-aggressiveness. I can tell though, she still doesn't like me."

"And your sister?"

Morse shook his head mournfully. "She barely knows me. It's to be expected, I was out of the house for a very long time. It's been three months now, and I think I'm still a stranger in her eyes."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Um, why are you here? Did something happen-?"

From behind him a gaggle of young girls walked past. One girl, a pretty brunette, reached out with her hand and brushed Morse's hair from his neck and he jumped in surprise. His startled reaction sent the girls into a fit of giggles, several of them flirtatiously saying his name and waving.

Thursday grinned. "Looks like you got a few admirers. Good job."

Morse scowled. "I'm _thirty_."

"Oh. Oh, right."


End file.
